


Chronicles

by paperstorm



Series: Deleted Scenes [92]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:11:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1830805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorm/pseuds/paperstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tag for <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1532469/?ref_=ttep_ep10">'Abandon All Hope', 5x10</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chronicles

**Author's Note:**

>   
_Now I will gather you to your ancestors, and you will be buried in peace. Your eyes will not see all the disaster I am going to bring on this place._   
_Chronicles 34:28_   


  
After Bobby makes them take the picture, he and Ellen and Jo go to bed; Bobby in the room on the main floor he converted into his bedroom after he got hurt, and Ellen and Jo in the room upstairs Sam and Dean usually sleep in. Dean goes outside for a while and Cas goes with him at first, and then comes back inside and wanders off – Sam’s not sure where he goes. Dean stays outside. Sam _doesn’t_ go with them, because he wants a little time to himself to think. He sits on the couch in the living room, in the dark, and goes over everything in his mind. Everything that’s happened in the last few months, everything he and his brother have learned about themselves. It’s still way too much to process, and the days fall into each other without Sam ever coming to any sort of place of understanding. It still feels too big, too surreal. Sam knows if they succeed tomorrow, if they kill the Devil and stop all of this, he’ll still go the rest of his life feeling like this is something that happened to someone else.  
  
Dean comes in after a while; Sam hears him moving around in the other room for a few minutes before he finds Sam in the living room.  
  
“Hey,” he starts softly, looking at Sam with his expression halfway between fondness and worry.  
  
Sam manages a small smile. “You’re not about to give me the _last night on Earth_ speech, are you?”  
  
Dean laughs a little. “No.”  
  
Sam nods and presses his lips together. He doesn’t need to hear that speech because they’ve been in this situation too many times already, but he feels it. He feels how easily this plan could go wrong, how this could be it for them. Sam wishes to God they weren’t in a house full of people right now, even if those people are sleeping. He wants to fall into a bed with Dean and cling to him, and the fact that he can’t is making it hard to breathe.  
  
“I hit on Jo earlier.”  
  
Sam glances up and frowns. “Why?”  
  
Dean shrugs and won’t look at him. “Don’t know.”  
  
“What did she say?”  
  
“Shot me down.”  
  
“Smart girl,” Sam says, and when Dean does look at him, he smiles.  
  
Dean laughs quietly again and walks slowly over to join Sam on the couch. “Yeah.”  
  
“What would you’ve done if she said yes?”  
  
“Nothin’. She wasn’t gonna say yes, I knew that. Her mom’s here, and Bobby, and _you_. It’s not like we could’ve just snuck off upstairs and no one would’ve noticed.”  
  
Sam nods.  
  
Dean leans back against the sagging cushions. “Since tomorrow could be it, anything you wanna get off your chest?”  
  
“I replaced your shaving cream with a can of whipped cream when I was seventeen.”  
  
Dean smiles and tips his head back to rest on the back of the couch. “I remember.”  
  
Sam smiles and leans back too, close enough to his brother for their arms to touch. “Guess you know all my secrets, then.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says softly.  
  
“Where’s Cas?”  
  
“Downstairs.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Dean shrugs. “Said he didn’t wanna bug us while we’re sleeping.”  
  
“It’s never a good sign when the robots start learning.”  
  
Dean nods and then falls silent. After a minute, he lifts his arm up and wraps it around Sam, and Sam leans into him, slouching down to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean kisses his hair and then wraps his other arm around Sam too. Sam wonders how many times they’ve sat exactly like this on this couch, starting way back before it wasn’t okay for them to do it.  
  
“If we do die tomorrow, where do you think we’ll go?” Sam asks, his voice coming out small and scared even though he’s trying to pretend he isn’t worried.  
  
“Got my fingers crossed for Heaven, I guess, now that we know it’s real. But I don’t know.”  
  
“What’s Hell like?”  
  
“You don’t wanna know. And you wouldn’t go there anyway. You’re the one who prays.”  
  
“Haven’t done that in a long time.”  
  
“How come?”  
  
“Ever since we met the angels? It just kinda seems like … what exactly am I praying _to_ , y’know?” Sam pauses for a moment. He turns a little more into his brother and slides his arm over Dean’s stomach. “A bunch of angels who’re willing to wipe us all out because of a pissing contest? A God that doesn’t care anymore? What’s the point?”  
  
“M’sorry,” Dean mumbles. “For all of it.”  
  
“It’s not your fault.”  
  
“I’m not sayin’ it’s my fault. I’m sayin’ I’m sorry.”  
  
“Oh.” Sam sighs and closes his eyes when they start to burn. “Yeah. Me too.”  
  
“This is our shot, right? So we go out there tomorrow and do what we do best. And if we die, then we die. There’s nothin’ we can do about that. At least we’ll go down swingin’.”  
  
“That’s … impressively existential.”  
  
“I don’t know what that means, so I’ll take it as a compliment.”  
  
Sam laughs. “It is one.”  
  
“Good.” Dean kisses Sam’s hair again and squeezes his arms around him. “So. Last night on Earth.”  
  
Sam snickers and pokes him. “That didn’t work on Jo, it’s not gonna work on me either.”  
  
Dean laughs too. “Would it work if we were alone?”  
  
“Yeah. Wish we were.”  
  
“So just don’t die. Then when this is over, we can get a room somewhere and hump until we starve.”  
  
“That’s beautiful,” Sam jokes.  
  
“What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic.”  
  
“Yes you are.” Sam kisses Dean’s neck and closes his eyes again, relaxing into his brother’s embrace and trying to memorize how it feels, just in case it’s the last time. “I love you.”  
  
“I know, Sammy.”  
  
____  
  
“You boys sure you don’t wanna stay?” Bobby asks, as Dean stomps around gathering up their few items and shoving them into his bag.  
  
Sam tries to catch Dean’s eye, but Dean avoids his gaze and clearly has no intention of staying in Bobby’s house any longer than he has to.  
  
“Guess not,” Sam answers.  
  
In a way, he wishes they could. He wishes they could just sit around in Bobby’s living room, drinking a beer in honor of their fallen friends and reminiscing – being together and being sad, like people are supposed to do when a friend dies. Instead, Dean will drag them out of here and off to some small, damp motel room that reeks of someone else’s sweat, and he’ll be cold and hostile and obviously upset but refuse to talk about it. Sam understands _why_ Dean is the way he is, and usually he’s fairly skilled at breaking down the wall his brother puts up and getting to the painful feelings underneath, but he’s just not sure he’s up for the whole song and dance of it tonight. Not when he feels so bad himself about what they’ve lost.  
  
Bobby watches Dean with an almost heartbroken look on his face – it’s more emotion than he usually shows and it hurts Sam as much as everything else does. “Door’s always open if you change your mind. I didn’t keep those beds upstairs all these years for any other reason.”  
  
Sam closes his eyes for a moment and nods. “Yeah. We know. Thanks, Bobby.”  
  
“We’ll call in a couple days,” Dean says shortly, barely glancing at either of them before he slings his bag over his shoulder and walks out, calling, “C’mon, Sam,” over his shoulder.  
  
“Is he gonna be okay?” Bobby asks quietly, as they watch Dean heading for the Impala through the window.  
  
Sam presses his lips together for a moment before answering, because it _hurts_ to see Dean this upset. “Yeah. Enough to keep goin’, anyway.”  
  
Bobby nods.  
  
“He’s gonna blame himself,” Sam mumbles, brushing his hair off his forehead.  
  
“Why?”  
  
Sam shrugs. “Take your pick. Because Jo got hurt fighting the Hellhound that was going after him. Because he couldn’t figure out a way to get her out of there. Because he broke the first seal. Because he was _born_. It’s Dean, this is what he does.”  
  
“Yeah. It is.” Bobby sighs heavily. “Well … take care’a him, I guess. As much as he’ll let you, anyway.”  
  
Sam nods. He glances down at Bobby, and the slightly knowing glint in Bobby’s eyes makes him uncomfortable for a moment. Then the look fades away, and Bobby looks over to the fireplace where the picture Dean threw in has burned into nothing but ash.  
  
“I’m sorry, Bobby.”  
  
Bobby raises an eyebrow. “For Dean? Ain’t your fault, kid.”  
  
Sam shakes his head. “For Ellen and Jo. They were your friends too. This … it shouldn’t have happened.”  
  
Bobby stares at him for a minute, and then he opens his mouth once or twice before speaking. “Sit,” he commands, pointing at the couch, and Sam is confused but he does what he’s told. Bobby rolls over to him and looks Sam right in the eyes. “You listen to me. Ellen and Jo were damn good people. It’s horrible that they’re gone, but it is _not_ your fault. D’you hear me?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Hey, I mean it. And you tell Dean that too. We lost two members of our family today, and that hurts like Hell. It’s _supposed_ to hurt. But they were hunters. All hunters die bloody, that’s the life. The second you start blamin’ yourself for deaths that ain’t your fault … there’s no comin’ back from that.”  
  
Sam swallows over the emotion welling up in his throat. “Okay. Thanks.”  
  
The Impala’s horn sounds from outside, and Sam closes his eyes for a moment and sighs again.  
  
“He ain’t okay, is he?” Bobby asks – it isn’t really a question.  
  
Sam shakes his head. “No he isn’t.”  
  
“How ‘bout you?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sam says honestly. “Not really, I guess.”  
  
Bobby nods. He pats Sam’s leg awkwardly and then he rolls back into the kitchen. Sam gets up and follows him.  
  
“Do you want us to stay?” he asks. “‘Cause I can tell Dean – ”  
  
“Go on,” Bobby says gruffly. “I’ll be fine. We can raise a glass for ‘em another night. When it’s not so new.”  
  
Sam swallows again and nods. He doesn’t believe Bobby is fine at all, none of them are, but he’s knows arguing wouldn’t accomplish anything. “‘Kay. We’ll call in the morning.”  
  
Bobby nods in the direction of the door again. “Get.”  
  
Sam claps him on the shoulder and leaves, joining his brooding brother in the car.  
  
“Took you long enough,” Dean mutters.  
  
“I was making sure Bobby’s okay,” Sam tells him, keeping his voice even because he has no interest in letting Dean bait him into a fight right now. Not tonight. “They were his friends too.”  
  
Dean doesn’t answer.  
  
He drives for hours. Sam doesn’t know where they’re going and he doesn’t ask. Dean probably doesn’t know either. He just drives and squeezes the wheel too tight and clenches his jaw and Sam does his best to ignore all of it and focus on hoping Ellen and Jo died quick, and that, since apparently heaven _is_ real, that’s where they are right now.  
  
They still don’t speak when Dean finds a roadside motel. Sam doesn’t know if they’re even in South Dakota anymore. He wasn’t paying attention.  
  
“So, are we gonna talk about it?” Sam asks eventually, as they unload their few belongings into the room.  
  
He isn’t surprised when Dean mutters, “No.”  
  
Sam nods. “Okay.”  
  
He doesn’t want to talk about it either. Not really. Nothing he could say will change what happened. He just knows Dean isn’t alright, and Sam hates it when Dean bottles himself up. It never ends well. Usually, it ends with him being terrifyingly reckless on their next hunt, and one of these times Sam is going to lose him for good when he lets his emotions take over and charges in head-first instead of playing it smart. Although, Sam supposes, that probably isn’t actually true anymore. If they’re the vessels the angels want for the final fight, they’re probably protected. Or at the very least will be brought back to life if anything happens to them. The thought is pretty damn far from comforting.  
  
Dean half sits on the desk in the corner, his legs crossed at the ankle and his arms wrapped protectively around himself. He stares at the floor with an expressionless face, and Sam aches for him – for both of them – but he tries to ignore it. He goes over to one of the beds and sits down on it, dropping his bag down beside him and rummaging through it. Odds and ends collect in there along their way; bullet shells, maps, garbage. He picks through them, pulling out what can be thrown away. Flashes of their friends ignite in the back of his mind even though he struggles to keep them out. Ellen helping them close the Devil’s Gate the night they killed Yellow-Eyes. Jo’s first hunt. She was so awesome and brave and helped them save that girl. And Sam was so cruel to her, when Meg possessed him. He’s not sure she ever forgave him for that, and he doesn’t blame her, even though it wasn’t him talking.  
  
He and Dean are alive right now because of them. They were trapped by those Hellhounds, there’s no way they could have made it out of there in one piece. Ellen and Jo _sacrificed_ themselves so that he and Dean could keep going, could kill the Devil, and instead they failed spectacularly.  
  
There’s a small shuffle behind him, and Sam turns around just in time to watch as, out of seemingly nowhere, Dean picks up the small, rickety, wooden chair that’s tucked under the desk, growls like a wild animal, and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall and explodes, legs falling to the floor and shards of wood littering the ground. Sam flinches when it crashes into the drywall and then closes his eyes because he can’t look at Dean. He can’t handle any of this. He can’t handle all the things the Devil said to him, about how they’re the same. And he can’t handle watching his brother break.  
  
When he opens his eyes, Dean is standing on the other side of the room, his back to Sam and leaning over the chest of drawers, his hands balled into fists and braced on the top of the cabinet. His shoulders are clenched and he’s shaking, just slightly but enough that Sam notices, and Sam’s insides twist painfully around each other. He walks slowly over to his brother, reaching a hand out to touch him, but before he can, Dean feels him there and tenses even more.  
  
“Don’t,” he mutters, dangerously quiet.  
  
“Don’t what?” Sam mumbles, even though he knows.  
  
“Just go, okay?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Sam,” Dean grinds out.  
  
“What am I supposed to do?” Sam asks desperately. “I’m not leaving you.”  
  
“I’m not asking you to leave.”  
  
“Then what?”  
  
“Just leave me _alone_.”  
  
“No,” Sam repeats, and Dean makes an angry noise and slams his fist into the wooden surface under his hands. Sam flinches again. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”  
  
Dean grumbles something under his breath and walks quickly away, his shoulder knocking into Sam’s as he moves past him. Sam looks at the shattered chair, and then he looks at his brother’s back, and it’s all he can do not to break down himself.  
  
“Dean,” he whispers.  
  
“What?” Dean cries, whipping around. There are tears on his face. Sam knew there would be, and yet it still hurts to see them. “What the hell do you want from me?”  
  
“I don’t know. Just … talk to me,” Sam begs.  
  
“About what? What the hell could either of us say to make this any better? What’s the _point_?”  
  
Sam doesn’t have a good answer for that.  
  
“Our friends are dead, and I’m sad,” Dean says unevenly, like he _hates_ himself for it. “Okay? That’s it. There’s nothing deeper going on here, nothing we need to talk about. I’m just sad. I’m sorry you aren’t.”  
  
“I am!”  
  
“Oh. So that’s what sad looks like?” Dean gestures angrily at Sam, and then he swipes at the tears on his face and holds up his wet fingers. “I guess I’m just leaking or something. Should probably see a doctor about that.”  
  
Sam’s jaw clenches, and he tries not to be mad that Dean’s lashing out at him. “You’re not crying because you’re sad.”  
  
Dean glares at him and snorts. “Right. So I’m just a wuss, then. Good. That’s good, Sam. Thanks, I love being kicked when I’m down.”  
  
Sam ignores him and continues. “That’s not what I meant. I _am_ upset, okay? They were our friends. I can’t even explain how sad I am that they’re gone. But you? Yeah, you’re upset because they’re gone. But you’re _this_ upset because you think it’s your fault.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Dean spits.  
  
“Tell me I’m wrong.” Sam raises his eyebrows but Dean just keeps glaring at him. Sam steps closer to Dean, and Dean turns away from him a little and looks down at the floor.  
  
“Sammy,” he mumbles.  
  
Sam doesn’t listen. He can’t. “It isn’t your fault.”  
  
“Jo died because she was trying to save me!” Dean yells.  
  
“Like you wouldn’t have done the same for her? For any of us? Every time we take a job we risk our lives, that’s how this works!”  
  
“So I’m supposed to be fine about it?”  
  
“No, of course not! You’re supposed to be miserable because we lost them, but you’re not supposed to beat yourself up for something you didn’t do!”  
  
Dean stares at him, the muscles in his jaw working and his eyes intense. Then he turns around again, his back to Sam, and rubs his hands over his hair. Sam blinks back tears and takes another few steps closer to his brother.  
  
”Please don’t shut me out,” he murmurs.  
  
“I can’t talk about it,” Dean chokes out, like the words singe his skin on the way past his lips.  
  
“Then we won’t talk about it. I don’t care.” Sam takes a chance and goes for broke, sliding his arms around Dean’s middle and hugging him from behind. Dean doesn’t push him away, so Sam kisses his neck and leaves his mouth resting against the warm skin. “Just … please.”  
  
Dean mumbles, “Fuck you,” again, but there’s no heat to it this time. He stays stiff and tense in Sam’s arms for a moment, and then Sam feels it as Dean just crumbles. His shoulders shake and the fight goes out of him, dissolving into soft, desperate sobs that wrack his body and feel like white-hot needles on Sam’s skin.  
  
“It’s okay,” Sam whispers, even though it isn’t.  
  
Dean turns around in his arms, reluctantly giving in to the comfort Sam’s offering and burying his face in Sam’s shoulder. He sags against Sam’s chest and Sam hugs him tightly, turning his face into the side of Dean’s head and closing his eyes. Dean clings to him and cries. Tears burn behind Sam’s eyes and spill down his cheeks too, hot and hopeless and devastated. Everything that happens lately feels like too much, and then there’s always something else waiting for them in the wings when it seems like they can’t handle any more. Sam doesn’t know how they’re going to get through this one, but he knows they’ll have to anyway. The Colt didn’t work, they still have to kill the Devil and save the world. They don’t have _time_ to break down, but Sam knows they’re going to. He walks them backwards toward the bed and awkwardly pulls Dean down onto it. Dean goes like he’s too tired to resist, and lets Sam wrap him up and kiss his forehead.  
  
Even after all these years, it still feels odd sometimes to be the one holding Dean instead of the other way around. True to his word, Dean has been better about treating Sam like an equal lately, but in certain aspects of their lives Sam will always be the younger brother. It’s part of their dynamic and it’s set in stone. Sometimes Sam feels out of his element, trying to be the strong one while Dean falls apart.  
  
“So what now?” Dean asks, a bitter cadence to his wavering voice. “We fuck and pretend all this never happened?”  
  
Sam knows he’s just upset, but hearing him reduce what they have to _that_ breaks his heart a little. “I’m not pretending anything.”  
  
Dean doesn’t respond. He tucks his head under Sam’s chin, though, and he doesn’t try to get away. Sam rubs his back, tears still streaming slowly down his own face and the grief almost overwhelming. Like every other horrible thing that’s ever happened to them, Sam is equally as sad about Jo and Ellen dying as he is about how much it’s affecting Dean. For as much as his brother likes to play tough-guy, Sam knows the truth. Dean _is_ tough, but he’s also deeply sensitive and he feels things like this so much, especially when he thinks he should have been able to stop them from happening.  
  
After a few minutes, Dean mumbles, “Sorry.”  
  
“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” Sam murmurs.  
  
“Yeah, I do. Shouldn’t take things out on you.”  
  
“Yes you should.”  
  
“Guess I don’t really have anyone else.”  
  
“Yeah.” The thought is comforting and gut-wrenching at the same time.  
  
“What’re we supposed to do now?”  
  
Sam nudges Dean’s face with his nose, so Dean will look up enough for Sam to press a kiss to his lips. “For tonight, nothing. They were our friends and they’re gone. It’s supposed to hurt this much.”  
  
Instead of answering, Dean slides his hand into Sam’s hair and kisses him, quicker and more insistent. It’s how he speaks to Sam when he can’t talk anymore; how he says that he’s upset and mad at himself and needing Sam to make it better. Sam rolls them over, pushes himself to lie on top of his brother and kisses him back, deep and consuming. He blankets Dean’s body with his own, wanting Dean to feel surrounded and protected like Sam always does when their positions are reversed. Dean pushes at Sam’s shirt but can’t get it off with Sam on top of him, so Sam sits up. Dean flips open the button on Sam’s jeans while Sam’s getting himself shirtless and pushes his hand inside, cupping Sam’s hardening erection and squeezing it, and little tremors run through Sam’s veins at the brief contact.  
  
He gets completely off his brother to make stripping easier, and Dean sits up to pull his shirts off and then lies back down to wiggle out of his jeans and boxers. When Sam looks back at him, he’s naked and half-hard, lying on his back and looking up at Sam, his eyes shiny and his face more open and vulnerable than Sam’s seen it in a really, really long time. It makes him feel like crying again, to know how hard it is for Dean to just let himself be _real_ , even when it’s just the two of them.  
  
He climbs back onto his brother, rolling his hips so their cocks slide together while he slips his tongue into Dean’s mouth. Dean holds onto him tightly, his fingers digging into the muscles of Sam’s back, and pushing his hips up to match Sam’s movements. Sam just wants to keep him safe, to make him smile or at least make him feel good for a while, before the reality of the situation crashes back down around them. Dean’s always taking his eternal assignment to _look out for Sammy_ like it’s a blood oath, but he needs someone to look out for him too. Dean needs to be protected, and mostly from himself. From the thoughts and fears and insecurities that swirl around inside him and make him doubt himself, make him _hate_ himself. Sometimes it overwhelms Sam; makes him want to wrap Dean up and shield him from the whole world.  
  
“Can I fuck you?” Sam whispers.  
  
There are tears in Dean’s eyes and he won’t look directly at Sam, but he says, “Yeah.”  
  
Sam kisses him slowly and then murmurs, “Don’t say yes just for me. I don’t care what we do.”  
  
Dean shakes his head a little. “I’m not.”  
  
He doesn’t say anything else, and Sam isn’t confident he was being honest. But then Dean holds his face and kisses him again, hard and intense, and Sam understands what Dean’s trying to say.  
  
They don’t speak through it. Sam opens Dean up slowly, carefully, laving his tongue over the head of Dean’s cock while he slides two and then three fingers into him, brushing over his prostate. Dean’s quiet, other than soft sighs and the occasional barely-there moan. He’s holding back, Sam can tell, but maybe tonight won’t be about wild groans and frenzied snaps of hips and maybe Sam’s okay with that. By the time he slicks up his aching cock and pushes into Dean, he’s so hard he’s dizzy and his body wants him to just slam home and take the pleasure that’s waiting for him but Sam doesn’t. He balances on his elbows over Dean so he can kiss him, soft brushes of his lips on Dean’s while he works himself slowly into Dean’s tight heat.  
  
Dean wraps his arms around Sam’s back and his legs around Sam’s waist, clinging to him physically in a way he’d never allow himself to do emotionally, and Sam will take it because Dean’s always been more physical anyway. Touches mean more to him than words do. Sam’s the opposite so usually they try to meet in the middle, but Sam’s more than happy to give Dean what he needs tonight. He thrusts into Dean slowly, deep and controlled and deliberate. Dean rolls his hips up to meet Sam’s, their bodies crashing together, unhurried and healing. It feels good but it’s weighted like it is with Dean sometimes – where what they’re doing isn’t nearly as important as what it means that they’re doing it.  
  
The silence in the room is punctured only by the soft rustle of them moving together and heavy breathing, so when Dean whispers Sam’s name in a breathy, broken tone, it’s deafening to Sam’s ears and makes his heart thud against his chest. He kisses Dean again, trying desperately to say with his lips and tongue all the things Dean wouldn’t let him say out loud. If Dean knows it all – that Sam loves him, that he’s sorry they couldn’t save Ellen and Jo, that it hurts him to see Dean so upset but he’d never want Dean to keep it inside – he doesn’t let on, but Sam thinks maybe he can _feel_ it in the way Dean’s fingers run over his skin.  
  
Sam pulls himself out as gently as he can when it’s over – after they’re sent over the edge in a free-fall and only survive the plunge by holding onto each other – and then flops, boneless, onto the mattress next to his brother. Dean turns his face in the opposite direction, and when Sam lifts his head up to see why, he notices there are still tear-tracks etched down Dean’s flushed cheeks – or maybe fresh ones. He rolls onto his side and touches Dean’s chest, and Dean shakes his head and doesn’t move away but won’t look at Sam.  
  
Sam slides his hand over to cup around Dean’s ribcage, pulling gently in an effort to get Dean closer. Dean resists for a moment, but Sam doesn’t stop and finally Dean gives in and rolls into Sam. Sam gets both arms around his brother; one snaked under his neck and the other around his back, and kisses the salty wetness on Dean’s face.  
  
“Don’t hide from me, okay?” he whispers.  
  
Dean doesn’t answer. He buries his face against Sam’s neck and lets Sam hug him. Sam knows they’ll lie like this, wrapped up together, holding on for dear life while the world goes to Hell beyond the thin walls of their room, until the sun comes up, and then when it does the moment will break and they’ll probably never talk about it again. Sam will pester and Dean will resist. It’s their pattern, it’s the equation that powers their existence. Lather, rinse, repeat. For now, Sam is okay with that. At least they have this part. At least, for tonight, they can just be sad and be together and forget about everything else – about pride and strength and failure and judgment day. The way Sam sees it, every now and then, they’re entitled.


End file.
